


Routine

by anathomical



Category: Claymore
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 20:49:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anathomical/pseuds/anathomical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even the most comfortable routines can stand to get shaken up from time to time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Routine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queenoffruits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenoffruits/gifts).



> I nearly exploded with glee when I got this assignment. Three requests that I'd _love_ to write? How often does that happen? I spent a couple of weeks agonizing over which one to go with, but ultimately it was the AU bit of the Claymore request that decided me. Because there's something deeply compelling about a world where the Claymores aren't outcasts. Of course then, when I got into it, I didn't end up doing much exploring of that world, but the idea still has me excited.
> 
> I also owe tremendous thanks to my lovely betas, without whom this story would have been a mess of confusing language and poorly executed ideas.
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

It was a large apartment for just one person, and the sparse furnishings only made it seem larger. The living room almost seemed to swallow the dark brown leather couch and matching chair. The mahogany bookshelves against the wall helped, as did the standing lamps and the end tables, but they weren't enough to make the room feel anything other than large and empty. The size of the apartment served to enhance the sense of complete silence, a trait which Deneve appreciated and one of the reasons she paid the exhorbitant rent on the place. The gentle hum of the fridge, the intermittent drip of the kitchen sink which refused to stay repaired no matter how many times Deneve called her landlord to come fix it, and the occasional distinctive rasp of pages turning all seemed to get swallowed up in the empty spaces of the apartment. Which meant that the sound of a key sliding into the lock and the tumblers turning almost seemed loud.

 

Deneve was a well-muscled woman, a fact that the pair of comfortable ivory slacks and a pearlescant grey blouse did little to obscure. Her jacket, cut from the same material as her slacks, was hanging on the coat rack by the door. She was content where she sat, legs crossed, book perched in her lap, so she didn't bother looking up at the sound of the door's latch clicking open. First of all, she was almost to the end of the chapter. Second, only one person beside herself had a key for that lock. Third, she recognized the muted youki aura on the other side of the door. And finally, it was six o'clock on a Wednesday night. No one ever accused Helen of being predictable, but the truth was that Helen _was_ predictable. And it was six o'clock on a Wednesday night.

"Please tell me that you're reading a trashy romance novel." Which was at least theoretically possible. After all, one of the bookcases against the wall was given over entirely to the things. Though a careful examination would reveal that each of the books were suspiciously pristine, almost as if they'd never even been opened. But Helen kept buying them, and Deneve never threw them away, so pretty soon the collection would spread onto one of the bookcases given over to first editions.

When she didn't get an immediate answer, Helen strode across the room and reached down to grab the book so that she could examine the cover. "What is this? History? Really, Deneve?" She shook her head and clucked her tongue, snapping the book closed and handing it back. "Maybe I'm not buying trashy enough books for you," she muttered just loud enough to be heard.

Deneve sighed and reclaimed her book, marking her place and setting the hardcover down on the table by her chair. Then her eyes swept upward, examining her uninvited guest. Dark grey suede ankle boots, muted silver tights which showed off Helen's long legs to good effect (especially combined with that incredibly short skirt), and a pale lavender turtleneck topped off with Helen's laughing grin. Muted colors and vibrant personality: Helen in a nutshell. Then Deneve's expression shifted almost imperceptibly. Something was missing.

"Did the Chinese place close down or something?" Deneve asked, careful not to sound interested.

Helen just shrugged. "It's not like we actually have to eat, as you sigh and point out every week."

"But you insist on bringing something every week."

Another shrug. "Well, maybe I'm finally starting to listen to you."

Except that A) the very idea of Helen listening to anyone was laughable, and B) there was something in her voice. A note of... amusement? It was hard to tell if the laughter in Helen's silver eyes was just her usual playfulness, or something more mischievous. Deneve's eyes didn't narrow. They never really narrowed, but she knew that Helen sensed her suspicion. Not that Helen responded with anything but her usual mocking smile.

And, of course, Helen's voice matched her smile. "Besides, I know you don't really eat unless I'm around, so I'm sure it was getting to be a bother, me always bringing food over." She paused for a moment to let that sink in before adding, "And you know how much I hate being a bother."

"Then why did you come over tonight?" Deneve asked. Helen's usual excuse was that Deneve's apartment was bigger and had an actual dining table. Which was true, but only because Helen refused to move into anything bigger than that oversized closet she lived in, and claimed to hate shopping for furniture. A claim that was more than a little ridiculous considering the enthusiasm she'd shown when picking out Deneve's couch, bookshelves, table, chairs, and everything else.

Helen pursed her lips thoughtfully, as if she needed a few seconds to come up with an answer to that particular question. Then, suddenly, her grin was back. "So you don't get lonely sitting all by yourself in this huge apartment."

"So you don't want me to be lonely, and you don't want to be a bother." Just to be clear.

"As usual, you've got a great grasp on the situation."

"You're saying I have to put up with you, but that I don't get any dumplings to compensate me for my time and effort?"

"I'm saying," Helen corrected, "that you get the incomparable pleasure of my company, with no food, which you don't like anyway, to distract you." To punctuate her point, Helen threw herself heavily onto Deneve's couch and stretched luxuriously.

That stretch dragged out, along with Helen's hum of relaxed satisfaction, until it became more a pose than a stretch; which was when Helen peeked over at the way Deneve was still sitting comfortably in her chair. Fortunately, Deneve had looked away a heartbeat before. It wouldn't do to be caught considering just how long Helen's lithe legs were, after all. That would only result in further needling.

Helen's amused chuckle suggested she knew what Deneve had been doing anyway.

Well. Two could play at that game. Deneve shifted in her seat, uncrossing her legs. "I know that you're just going to complain about not having anything to eat, so I'm going to go order something." She stood up slowly, arching back in a subtle stretch that wasn't really very subtle at all. Rather than looking away or pretending subtlety herself, Helen opted to openly ogle the pose. Deneve watched the other woman's eyes sweep upward, lingering on the way her tailored slacks hugged her hips, sliding across the musculature of her stomach, and finally reaching Deneve's face. Both women shared the same silver eyes, though where Helen's laughed Deneve knew her own were hard, and the same unnaturally pale hair. After a couple of seconds Helen quirked an eyebrow in amusement and let her gaze sweep back down Deneve's body. The exaggerated leer on Helen's face had Deneve half expecting the other woman to actually whistle. Which wouldn't really have been surprising; the woman was incorrigible.

So rather than provide Helen with any further reasons to widen that knowing smirk, Deneve walked into the kitchen. She found the menu that had been in the take-out bag from last week still sitting where Helen had tossed it carelessly onto the counter. She dialed and ordered Helen's usual from memory, then tacked on an order of dumplings just because she needed something to make the minimum delivery charge. Not because she really wanted them, and certainly not because they were part of the comfortable Wednesday night routine.

Tossing the menu back onto the counter, Deneve pocketed her phone. She raised her voice to call back into the living room. "Is there anything I can get you while we--" She cut off in mid-sentence as her carefully-honed instincts screamed a warning. Deneve spun, hand reaching back for a weapon that she didn't wear inside the apartment, but then froze as she discovered that her face was only inches away from Helen's teasing, knowing smile. Deneve drew a breath to sigh and ask what Helen thought she was doing, but the other woman cut her off.

"I can think of one thing..." Helen's breath was hot against Deneve's skin, and the few heartbeats of distraction that thought provided were just enough for Helen to lean forward and press her lips firmly against her friend's.

Deneve's eyes snapped open after three interminable seconds, and she pulled back in surprise, staring wide-eyed as Helen slowly licked her lips. At the sight of that self-satisfied smirk, Deneve went from staring to scowling. So it was just another way of needling her. "I'm not in the mood for your games tonight, Helen." Not about this.

Helen's expression didn't change, but she shook her head gently enough that the slight sway of her hair was more felt than actually seen. "No game," she replied softly.

Deneve searched that familiar face in an attempt to figure out just what Helen meant. Open amusement, of course, but that was Helen's natural state. It would be worrying to find it absent. But underneath that... fondness, desire, hope. (Hope?) And underneath that maybe, just maybe, something more.

Deneve considered that 'maybe', turned it over in her mind, and made a decision. She stepped forward for another taste. Warm and oddly spicy. Deneve had never put much thought into how Helen's lips would taste, but somehow she knew that this wasn't what she'd expected. Which meant that there was so much to learn, so much to explore. She almost smiled at the thought. Her arms reached out to gently wrap themselves around Helen, and she could feel the tension drain out of both of their bodies only to be replaced with another, more urgent one. Helen's hands rose to comb through Deneve's inch-long hair before her lips parted and the kiss deepened. For a single moment time stood still, and then it ceased to have any meaning whatsoever.

Neither of them heard the door buzz, or Deneve's phone ring, so the delivery guy returned to the restaurant with cold food rather than money. The Chinese place put Deneve's apartment on their blacklist.


End file.
